


Creeping, Waiting

by TheStanByMe



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Ford is a creepy brother-fancier, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9545507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStanByMe/pseuds/TheStanByMe
Summary: The thought crept up on Ford at the most opportune moment.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Stancest week 2017 prompt 2: Adult Stans

The thought crept up on Ford at the most opportune moment. It waited for Ford to be ready to acknowledge it, in the back of his mind, out of the way of more pressing thoughts and emotions.

The thought crept in the background when Ford checked his brother over for anything that might signal Bill's presence. It waited on the side while Ford thought about all the things that could go wrong, while he explained the situation and his plan to Stanley as succinctly as he could. Then it got buried under anger, so much anger. It came near the forefront when Ford had been worried about injuring Stanley, but then it had fallen into the back again at the horrid _panic_ of falling through the portal.

Ford hadn't stopped for the longest time after landing on the other side. First he'd had to flee Bill and his associates. Then he'd had to find a way out of the Nightmare Realm and into the more vast multiverse. A lot of time had gone into studying his surroundings, measuring threats and weighing his options. He'd known that he'd eventually have to stop Bill, but before he was ready for that he'd needed to stay hidden somewhere, anywhere where Bill couldn't find him easily.

Everything eventually comes to, if not an end, at least to a pause, and so Ford eventually found himself in a calmer place and a calmer state of mind. And that was when the thought finished creeping up on him.

It came with a flash of memory about that single night he'd seen Stanley again before he'd been lost to the multiverse.

Stanley had looked good.

Now, Ford was aware of the dirty and worn down clothes, the unkempt hair and Stanley's typical lack of grace. But, really, Ford had looked worse when they'd met, with his sunken eyes, the shadows on his face and the unshaven stubble.

Stanley had shaved before coming to see Ford. He's also washed his hair, even though it still looked messy like hair that went a long time without trimming tended to do. His clothes might have been a mess, but he'd put an effort into the rest of it.

It all came down to one thing that Ford couldn't deny; Stanley had made himself presentable, he'd wanted to look good, _for Ford_.

As soon as the thought had occurred to Ford, it was all he could think about. He couldn't stop thinking about Stanley's freshly-shaven face, how Ford had gotten a clear view of how maturity had altered his twin's face, strengthened his chin, made the bone structure beneath his skin all the more obvious. Stanley had a handsome face, no doubts about it.

And Stanley might have decried his hairstyle, but Ford could find little fault in the healthy, thick mane of dark hair. Sure, it was frayed at the edges, in need of trimming, but Ford still thought about touching it, about running his fingers through it, about twining it around his digits, about pulling on it just a little bit, more playfully than painfully.

The unflattering clothes had hidden away the rest of Stanley, but the features he had seen were burned in Ford's mind. And so Ford drew them. He painstakingly recreated Stanley's form with pen and paper, drawing every intrinsic detail of what made up Stanley. His impeccable memory served him well in this task.

The finished drawing joined a childhood photograph tucked away in Ford's breast pocket. He'd started carrying it around when things had started going south, something to ground him and remind himself that he wasn't as alone in the world as he felt sometimes. The innocent faces of children who knew no better reminded Ford of the good times, when darker memories soured any reminiscing done on pictures of his brother's teenage self.

Now Ford had an image of the adult as well. The adult he didn't know and wasn't sure was trustworthy. But, at least Ford knew he still loved that adult, loved those features he soon started drawing again and again, during any moment he had just for himself instead of using his time solely to survive or plot against Bill.

When Ford had a pack to carry his things, he also included folders for his papers, one for plans and studies and another one solely for his drawings of Stanley. The process of drawing Stanley became addictive, a way to soothe his mind and collect himself. And, the more Ford drew his brother, the more he allowed his imagination to enter the images. He started drawing Stan without the winter clothes, in more casual wear. Eventually he braved another step and drew his assumptions of what his brother looked like with no clothes at all.

The only thing that saved those last drawings from being shamefully tucked to the very bottom of Ford's rugsack was the fear that they'd be ruined and Ford never liked the idea of ruining his creations.

He didn't like the idea of the image of his brother being ruined any better, to be honest.

And if Ford sometimes took those nude drawings of his brother out and touched himself to the sight of them, to the theorized dips of Stan's body and the assumed curve of his hardened arousal, well, that was his own business and no one else's.

Ford was little more than a dead man walking. A ruined, brilliant mind on a quest to end one of the most powerful beings in the multiverse. Frankly, Ford didn't think anyone would begrudge him how he decided to help make that stress a little more bearable.

Besides, his chances of making it home were slim to none. The one person who could ever take offence to Ford's behavior was in no position to ever find out.


End file.
